Solstice
by thelunaaltar
Summary: You can only stare at the moon so long before it howls back. AU.
1. Paradoxical

**A/N: Werewolf AU, yo. Apologies in advance for my grammatical fuckups.**

**-tla**

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><p><em><strong>solstice<strong>_

paradoxical

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><p><em><strong>i.<strong>_

_Abbie ran a hand through her hair, completely worn before evening rolled around. _Humidity and sweat stuck to her like a second skin; mosquitos taking enough blood from her arms and legs to donate. The environmental conditions were less than optimal with this midsummer heat, but alas. Duty calls when trouble arises, and apparently there truly is no rest for the wicked.

The walkie-talkie buzzed to life in her hand, knocking her out of her heat-induced stupor.

"_Abbie?"_ her partner tried again. She felt a faint tickle in her ear and quickly swatted away whatever creature decided to inconvenience her.

"I'm here, Luke."

"_Did'ja find anything yet?"_ She rolled her eyes for must've been the umpteenth time that day—hell, hour even. Luke was even less thrilled than her to be in middle of Westchester County woods on yet another futile search for a missing person. Her partner loathed the outdoors more so than her—or anyone she knew actually—but his eagerness to be over and done with this search was vexing. They had a job to do, and if there was a slimmer of a chance to understand what the hell's been going on lately, she was gonna' take it.

"No, Luke. If I found anything I would've told you; now _please_…stop radioing me." Perhaps she was being harsh, but she's since lost her forbearance when she jammed her foot into an ant pile half an hour ago. The forest was no place for anyone to be; she couldn't fathom how her friends and coworkers went camping for pleasure.

"_Geez, okay." _She'd probably apologize later, but for now, she had shit to do.

Abbie drew the folded paper from her back pocket, reopening it and reading over the victim's credentials once again.

Her name was Sharon Carroll; she was a proud mother of two little girls, coached soccer over summer, had a husband and a job as an elementary school teacher. She volunteered her Sunday's at a soup kitchen and helped fundraise Christmas parades. Everyone the police interrogated said she was happy with her life, loved her children to death and took her job seriously—that she lived the picture-perfect suburban life. And because of this, the police couldn't answer one question.

Why did she disappear?

Frustrated, she crammed the paper back into her pocket. Sharon wasn't the first to disappear into thin air lately. In fact, there's been a random, startling spike of disappearances in New York these past months. Hundreds have vanished into the night with few similarities thinly stringing these cases together.

The generally upsetting connection was that they were all young. Mrs. Carroll was the oldest one to disappear—for she was twenty-seven—considering most of the people who went missing were between twelve and eighteen.

Then there was fact that all of them were healthy, smart children. Whoever was causing these disappearances truly chose the cream of the crop. Young athletes, honor students, academic geniuses, adolescents with little to no health problems or allergies. This clued in the detectives that whoever was the cause of this did their research and had access to private information.

Though, most baffling of all the evidence was the crime scene—because there was none. In the three-hundred-forty-one cases of missing children and adults, the investigators couldn't find any signs of struggle. No broken vases, no blood, no scattered objects. It's just as if they just decided to leave and walk out by their own will—but the parents and friends always told detectives _"x wouldn't do that_." Mrs. Carroll's case was hardly different.

The entire situation made her head pound. Abbie forced herself to stop thinking about it and focus on fending off mosquitos and lord knows what else lived in these woods.

She was lost in her thoughts again when something blue caught her eye a couple of yards ahead. She frowned, walking closer until she could make out the object. It was a night slipper. She licked her lips and swept the ground with her eyes, looking for the other pair to no avail. Mrs. Carroll lived only a couple of minutes away from the woods; it was entirely possible that the slipper could've been hers.

Hope sparked in her chest and she gnawed her bottom lip in anticipation. If they could find her, she could help solve the upsurge of missing-persons cases. Possibly even explain what happened the night she disappeared to give investigators some ground to work with. Abbie called her name loudly, but to her utter disappointment, a loud flutter of wings was her only response. She swore under her breath.

Time ticked by quickly. The sun had since moved from the center of the sky and was dipping dangerously low behind the trees. A brilliant golden glow enchanted the thick coppices and bathed the trees in orange. Hadn't she been so consumed by her disconcerting thoughts she might've taken a moment to marvel the sight. However, she was no longer permitted the time, for she still had yet to find the other pair. At this point, she was tromping aimlessly around in wide circles for a _slipper_. A _fucking slipper_.

She was going off on a hunch, a baseless theory. If she was wrong—which she's been several times before—she wasted away an entire day's worth of searching.

The thickets rustled before her. Her breath hitched.

_Mrs. Carroll?_

What emerged from the bushes wasn't the missing woman, unfortunately. Instead, a wolf meandered out ahead of her. She swallowed audibly. Adrenaline surged through her veins, but she didn't run. Running would be pointless; wolves definitely had the upper hand by a long shot. So instead, she stood completely still and hoped he couldn't hear her heart hammering against her ribcage.

_Son of a bitch…_

Abbie didn't even know wolves lived in these parts of New York—hell, if she'd known that earlier, she definitely wouldn't have split up with Luke and the rest of the search party to cover more ground. She didn't need him to protect and coddle her, but God she'd be lying if she wasn't terrified of the brawny fiend in front of her.

The wolf—thank Christ—did nothing. He didn't so much as acknowledge her presence as he skirted a couple of inches past her pant leg. The wolf's nose was close to ground, ears flattened against his skull—his presence was intimidating, but she assumed there was something wrong with this one. His detached eyes, lackluster umber fur and lifeless amble couldn't have meant anything good, but she wasn't going to confront him and see what's wrong; that's for sure. Abbie remained still a few moments after he disappeared before continuing again.

The next time she stumbled across the wolf, she wasn't as fortunate as the first time around. It probably had something to do with her crashing into him when he popped out of the undergrowth, but she chose to ignore that part for now. The abstracted daze was gone and replaced with something electric. Something wild, dejected and addled as he snapped and snarled at her.

If she wasn't so terrified, she almost would've sorry for the poor thing.

Almost.

But nonetheless, she was mortified and her body left no room for pity. Her options slimmed down from the first time around, seeing that she was backing herself into a crevice between two great oaks and the wolf was advancing. Her hands fumbled around with her holster in a frantic search for her gun.

_I swear to God if I left it in the squad car—_

The growling stopped. She blinked.

He took a tentative step back before darting away as quickly as he came. She skimmed her surroundings for the bigger, badder creature that scared him off, but there was nothing. Nothing but her. Hands trembling and blood still rushing in her ears, she decided that she had enough of the forest today.

The third time she saw him, she knows God hates her. Him, His angles and Jesus combined must've had something rotten for her that day. She almost let out a humorless laugh, but dread had her body paralyzed and wracked with nerves. Third time's a charm, right? 'Fucking felt like it; at this point she'd probably just let him eat her—she was tired, it was late and she realized a couple of minutes ago the search party up and left without her.

Assholes.

Today was chockfull of surprises, but the one he had in his mouth was the most unanticipated. There he sat in front of her—tail curled neatly around his paws, previously unkempt fur smoothed back and groomed—with the missing slipper held slack between his teeth. The other one laid on its side next to his foot.

It takes her a minute. It really does.

When her mind started working its way out of its nonplussed state, the wolf already abandoned both shoes on the ground and was nudging her leg with his nose. She stared at him before rubbing her eyes, blinking a couple of times. This had to be a load of bullshit; a product of exhaustion, blood-loss and stress over the past couple weeks coming back to bite her on the ass. But when Abbie glanced at him—he who now pushed her leg impatiently—she realized that he was indeed _real_, and that this was really _happening_.

_Fuck_.

He pushed her again—hard this time—and she numbly stumbled forward. He let out a huff of air through his nose, trotting out in front of her. He made it only a couple of steps before he swung his head around and eyed her expectantly.

_He wants me to follow him_, she figured as ran her hands through her frizzy, knotted hair. Fuck it, what'd she have to lose at this point?

So Abbie—esteemed lieutenant, respected citizen and overall rational person—found herself maneuvering through the woods with a wolf in the dark of the night. It was completely nonsensical—and sounded an awful lot like something a free spirit hippy would say after an acid trip—but yet here she was.

The wolf was a couple of yards away when she heard him yip. Despite the throbbing pain in her feet from her shoes, Abbie picked up the pace to a light trot. She spent an unreasonable amount of time in the forest today—whatever he was calling her for, it better have been worthwhile.

She moved a wildberry bush out of her way, swinging her flashlight around. He barked. She spotted the source of his distress.

She nearly threw up on the spot.

It was a body; or rather what was left of it. Every limb was mangled into unrecognizable pieces. The ribcage was completely exposed and organs it used to hold were gone. And if not that, then it was part of the slop stewing inside of the torso. This was animalistic. Deep claw marks raked and lacerated the entire body, some type of goo or slobber soused around and inside of the wounds.

The person had white skin and bloodied blonde hair; she immediately thought of Mrs. Carroll. But this person was too wide and too short to be her, the grey streaks along this person's roots a clear sign whoever's body this was, they were too old to be the missing person's.

She forced her hands to steady and gripped her phone, calling in for back up.

The wolf let out a deep growl, his nose slicken with the mystery goo, and hightailed back into the coverts.

_**ii.**_

The next day, Abbie woke up sweating and twitching in her bed. Sweat rolled from her temple to her jaw and her stomach lurched menacingly. Her heart pounded so hard it could've broken right through her chest.

She would say she felt like shit, but that was a severe understatement.

It felt as if someone had taken a sledgehammer and slogged it straight through her skull. It felt as if she'd ran an entire marathon while simultaneously being warmed over by the fucking sun. It felt as if—

She ran straight for the toilet.

Abbie's seen bodies several times before; she was a cop after all. She's seen people stabbed, shot and ran over, but never filleted like a goddamn fish. She's never seen somebody mutilated with such fervor she couldn't even imagine who or _what _did that to the body.

Her stomach leaped again and she retched out whatever was left from yesterday midmorning.

When her belly finally calmed, she couldn't even bring herself to drink anything, let alone eat. She had to force liquids down her throat along with two Advils and an aspirin for good measure.

Abbie stripped down from her clothes and stared at her body, peppered and inflamed with mosquito and ant bites. She had light rings around her eyes, her face sheened with sweat and her hair falling limply around her shoulders. It was unsettling that in this edgy, filthy state, she most resembled her mother. The thought made her throat tighten.

She scrubbed all of the grime from yesterday off with a rag before letting the warm water pour down her face. She ran her fingers through her silky hair and messaged her scalp with the shampoo. The pure bliss that the shower gave made her run the water until it turned cold. It was only when it started feeling like she was getting doused in slush did she hop out of the shower.

She still had to go to work today, much to her demise. After the long stressful night Abbie endured yesterday, Irving would usually let her have this day off—but he couldn't do that now. Resources were being stretched thin over these disappearances. Especially after finding a body yesterday, she could only imagine what sort of outrageous work hours they'd all have to put in.

The day plodded on for hours at the station. It was exceptionally busy, hectic and loud. She swore the phone rung every two minutes and the paperwork piling on her desk was going to tip over and fall. People scurried back and forth in front of her office window, an annoyed or frustrated scowl fixed on their faces. It wasn't the day for anyone—another three people went missing and the investigators were scrambling for purchase.

Abbie yearned for the day this sick son of a bitch would be caught. Them and all of their goons, because the statewide peril simply couldn't be caused by one person.

Six o'clock hit and Abbie was already out of the door. She couldn't take another minute in there, or she swore she was going to lose her shit. Usually she enjoyed working in the office. She lived for the pure euphoria of catching baddies and throwing them in jail. She loved helping people find justice and making them feel secure in their homes.

But she couldn't do any of that today. She could only sit around fruitlessly and watch the children go missing; watch the list of missing people inflate, wondering what child would go next.

Nathaniel Baggins, Rachael Myer and Samantha Pauper—they were this day's batch of unfortunate adolescents. She had to go through the same song and dance with their parents, lies leaden on her tongue nearly every day now. That they'd be found, that the police were trying their hardest, that maybe their child's case was different—but it wasn't. It never was.

When you look at that proliferated list of missing children in this case, you stop seeing individuals. You stop seeing faces and names and hopes and dreams until all you're left with is numbers. Statistics that remained invariable throughout these entire two months. More solid than their hope—more solid than their prayers—were these numbers; and what they told her was that not a single one of them have been found. Their children were the same.

Abbie almost tore her car door off of its hinges with the sheer force she exerted. Fuck, she didn't know how long she could keep up with this, but she couldn't quit now. The body had been sent to forensics for DNA testing, seeing that there was no way anybody could identify it by the way it was now. This had to be related; she felt that same premonition as she did the day before. She knew there was something for her in that forest that day and there was. That body had to be connected someway, _somehow_. She didn't follow a wolf through a hellish forest for nothing—that much she knew.

When Abbie got home, the first thing she did was heat up the Chinese food from two days ago. Not eating this morning was a mistake, and it was an even more foolish one to skip her lunch break to finish paperwork. She was emotionally and physically drained today and that half-empty bottle of bourbon was starting to look better than life itself.

Her mind didn't even try to put up a fight as she reached over and took a swig straight from the bottle. _Fuck it_, she thought, feeling the sweet, fiery burn in her chest. _I need this_.

She went over to her microwave and grabbed her food. She plopped down on her old couch and flicked the TV onto whatever trashy, dramatic movie was playing on _LMN_. It only took her thirty minutes into _Celebrity Ghost Stories_ before she was out like a bulb.

When she woke up again, it was to the obnoxious vibrating in her back pocket rather than her alarm clock. She rubbed her eyes and snatched her phone, looking at the number through a blurry vision. She wanted to bury her face into a pillow and scream until the sun came up. It was Irving. The only time he ever called her personal phone was when there was bullshit arising at an unholy time.

She answered the phone, pressing the warmed device to her ear.

"Yeah?"

"_We have two more bodies._" He said, his voice clipped and gruff. The only thing she appreciated about his calls were how concise they were. The last thing she'd want at ass o'clock in the morning is some long-winded report. _"We need you to the scene as soon as you can get there."_

She slid off the couch and stretched. Duty called. "Where?"

"_Putnam County, Phillipstown." _That was at least an hour's drive away from Westchester. She yanked off her sleep shorts and threw them somewhere in her room, looking for a pair of jeans.

"Address?"

"I'll send it to you." And with that, the phone call ended. Not even bothering to change from her ridiculous unicorn print night shirt (a present from Jenny last year), she threw her jacket over her shoulders, jammed her feet into a pair of boots and headed right out. Hair be damned, she was investigating a murder, not auditioning to be a runway model.

The roads were pretty clear, the occasional semi-truck passing her as she made it further out into her county outskirts. The sky was still bleak and gray littered with thick, opaque clouds. It was gonna' rain like a bitch today.

When she finally made it into Phillipstown and to the address Frank had given her, she'd thought she must've made a wrong turn somewhere. Or that maybe her GPS was fucking up for the first time since she's got it. But alas, she didn't make the wrong turn. The house the bodies were found at were just in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by acres of thick trees and plains. Livestock huddled around in clusters looking like earthy blotches against the dense grass. The only pointer that she was going in the right direction was the jarring, one-way road that led her right to it. If not for that, she would've sworn she took a trip straight to Bumfuck Nowhere, Kentucky. That, or into some cheesy horror novel seeing how a light fog seemed to roll in out of nowhere.

Abbie took her bottom lip between her teeth and started chewing, a habit she needed to get out of. She passed a couple of low-hanging trees before the house came into view. She pulled up and parked outside of its gate. Abbie slid out of her car and waited for the officers on the other side to open it for her. She craned her neck, taking in the structure before her.

The house was huge, so vast to the point it was only something short of a mini-mansion or a manor. Gothic styled gates surrounded the land like a sullen fortress, high and sharp with brambles resting precariously at its base. The entire front of the house was tiled with cracked cobblestone bricks, weeds and thorns overtaking the stone. Unkempt hedge bushes lined the perimeter along with an assortment of weeds and wildflowers.

In the center, a tarnished, marble fountain stood unwaveringly. Three little angles donning harps and an unreadable, pensive expression mounted in the middle of the thick, murky fountain water. Trees loomed over and around the towering building, leading her to believe that the back led straight to the woods.

The house itself was also filled with grandeur, but was in an abandoned, derelict state just like the rest of the land. Vines and weeds ravaged the brick walls like thick, green rivulets. A chunk of the roof sunk in dangerously low and several areas was missing portions of tiles. Nonetheless, there was a hauntingly captivating lure to it that Abbie couldn't deny as she walked fully onto the property.

A detective lead Abbie to where most of the officers huddled. Red and blue lights skittered across the scene. They were gathered around a hedge bush at a corner of the land. Almost as if sensing her, Irving swiveled around and met her eyes with a detached stare. Something was wrong. Something was personal. He wiped his hand over his face and took in a deep breath air, body shuddering lightly despite the thick humidity.

He was spooked. Irving was _never _spooked.

"What happened?" She asked, feeling sweat start to prick at her neck and forehead. Irving waved his arm in the direction of the group.

"Take a look yourself." His voice cracked. Her stomach lurched.

Her legs felt like it was made of a thousand tons, but she moved regardless. The group parted and let her take a look at the scene.

_Oh fuck._

This time it was a man. She could see his face, unlike the other victim. Dissimilar to last time, however, there was no body. Just a head jammed on one of the many spikes lining the house. His jaw was slack, his eyes were wide open as if he was slaughtered right before he had a chance to scream. There was the same slobber oozing down his stumped neck as there was on the last body. She took a couple of steps back, nearly colliding with the officer behind her.

"Captain!" her voice is an octave short of being shrill. He knew this man, she could tell. Irving was always disturbed by odd murders, but this one? This one struck a nerve for him. "_Captain!_" She sped up to catch his retreating figure.

"_What_?!" she didn't even care that he yelled at her.

"Who is he?" She wrapped her jacket closer to her body. It was so hot, but chills raced up her spine like an electric current. He worked his jaw a few times. Abbie could see the lie die on his tongue. He closed his eyes tightly, lips pursed into a thin line.

"James Raymond, Macey's soccer coach. His son—_her_ best friend—disappeared two weeks ago." He stopped for a second. His eyes are glassy. "Whenever I couldn't make it to her games, he'd be there to fill in my place. He made sure he recorded every single second of my little girl running out there on the field for me." He let out a choking laugh. "When his boy disappeared, he spent more time making sure Macey made it home safe than he did himself."

She didn't know what to say, but he walked away before she had a chance to figure it out. Abbie let him go.

These murders were starting to hit closer and closer to home. She couldn't help but think about Macey and her captain's worry for his daughter. She met every criteria for the children who went missing. Young, intelligent, sports-minded with a future in professional soccer already being planned out for her. God, if Macey vanished, she didn't even know what Irving would do. What kind of damage that would wrack through him if he lost his daughter to the cold numbers and insufferable statics.

The second body was even more mangled than the body she found in the woods. Not a single ligament remained attached. Bits and pieces were scattered all over the cobblestone as if whatever did this played tug-of-war with the victim's limbs. And just the same as the other two cases, there was slobber. That disgusting gooey liquid glinted back at her, reflecting the police lights almost menacingly.

She needed to know what the hell it was, because it was driving her fucking insane.

When she felt a hand on her shoulder, she almost punched whoever touched her. But she caught herself right before she did, glaring wildly at Luke. He threw his hands up in defense.

"I'm sorry; didn't know you were in a daze."

She sighed and shoved her hands in her pockets. If she had that bottle of bourbon right now, she'd be a new woman…

"We need you to ask the yardmen some questions, they're still pretty fucked up after finding the bodies." He pointed his thumb in the direction of the crew of yard workers. "Captain was gonna' do it first, but that's probably not a good idea." He eyed her rigid posture and sucked in air through his mouth. "If you're still out of it, I could do it instead."

She waved him off, shaking her head. She came here to do a job.

"I've got it."

Not only that, but Luke was absolute shit at interrogating people. Sometimes he just didn't know when to stop asking questions. Last time he interrogated a recently widowed wife and got the life smacked out of him. And he deserved it that time, but still.

She walked around the police tape, going up to the men while trying to ignore the blood and gore surrounding her. The group of men sat around by their work truck, chatting solemnly. Upon her arrival, the boss stood up, his men following moments behind him. She stuck her hand out in greeting and the man shook it wearily with his meaty fingers.

"I'm Lieutenant Abigail Mills from Westchester County Police Department, and you are?"

"Joseph Sulley, owner of this lawn management service."

"So tell me exactly what happened. I want to know all the details about what occurred prior to you arriving to the property and before you found the bodies." She forced a smile despite feeling sick to her stomach. Sulley nodded his head dumbly.

"I got a call yesterday 'round three or four from some guy named _Barney Aylmer_." he pronounced the name as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. "It sounded like a pretty bullshit and fake name to me, but he was offering up five grand to mow his lawn. I wasn't gonna' look gift horse in the mouth, so I took up the offer in a second." His eyes skimmed the large land. "Had no fuckin' idea this is what he meant by lawn. Coulda' told me that before he hung up, but of course not."

She licked her lips, intrigued. "Anything weird about him that you noticed?"

Sulley let out an obnoxious bark. "Anything weird? This whole guy was fuckin' basket case! First he's got this funky ass British accent, then he sounded like he was out of breath the entire time. Thought he was dying or something; scared the shit outta' me! He called me from a public phone from a different county and the asshole acted like he didn't even know how to set up an appointment. Told us to come around whenever, so we got here as soon as possible. I mean, its five grand—most we've been paid to manage somebody's shit.

"So we get in the car and start drivin' down this piece of shit road at like three-thirty. A huge ass fog rolled around and it felt like a page straight outta' Goosebumps! We pull up to the house, and the gates just wide open. We thought he was waiting for us so we drove right in." he shudders, his face pale.

"What happened then?" she pressed on. He threw his hands up in the air.

"What I'mma about to tell you sounds like some Grim Brothers bull, but I shit you not, officer. I'm bein' completely honest wit'cha." He swallows audibly and she can see the sweat starting up again. "So we get there, and the _whole place _is crawlin' with beady red eyes starin' at us. First I thought it was bats, but weren't no bat with eyes like them. I tried to put the truck in reverse and get the hell outta' there when we slam into some _creature_. The thing bust our window open and tried to grab one of us—but Mark over here wasn't having any of that! Stabs the thing right in the arm with a pair of shears, and it goes off running. Must've been like two of them, 'cause I heard both of them sons of bitches screamin' and howlin' into the night!"

When her expression was incredulous and unconvinced, Sulley turned around, telling Mark to go grab the pair of shears. Sulley shook his head.

"It sounds crazy, officer, but I'm tellin' the truth! Wouldn't have believed it myself if it wasn't try'na kill me."

Mark whistled and she turned her attention his way. There, in his arm raised above his head for all to see, was the pair of shears covered in the most nauseatingly dark blood she's ever seen. The entire thing was coated in it.

Sulley smacked his knee, pointing at Mark. "See, I _told _you so! I go huntin' all the time and ain't never seen no land animal with blood like that!"

Abbie felt like throwing up all over again. Not even because of the disgusting blood oozing down the side of the shears, but because she couldn't find an explanation for _any _of this. Not the disappearances, not the wolf in the woods, not the slobber and _definitely _not the story Sulley told her. The sheer perplexity of this case was going to bury her under each new layer that kept piling up.

One of the forensics detectives took the shears from Mark, putting it in a plastic bag. Half of the team then went about scouring for more DNA samples inside of their truck.

Three hours later, and the scene was cleaned up. Just as if nothing ever happened; like a man wasn't beheaded and spiked, and the other one wasn't torn to shreds. This little fact upset her as she waited for the rest of the crew members to leave from the property.

_**iii.**_

For the entire next week, she found a new obsession. Jenny used to tell her that one day she'd get hooked on something fierce and wouldn't be able to return from it—but then she was talking about drugs.

Now? It was Barney Aylmer.

Abbie spent an unhealthy amount of time—more time than she'd ever willing admit—trying to figure out who the fuck he was using the little bits of information Sulley provided her. She made some accomplishments, such as getting a hold of the street camera footage where the mystery man called, but some ill-placed foliage had gotten in the way of anything useful.

Then there was the list of past companies that was hired to manage the house. While it seemed insignificant at first, upon further inspection she realized it could shed light on the dilemma.

Apparently the house was made all the way back in the early 1870's. And ever since it was made, the house was manicured four times a month, every month for every year. The owner of the house used the same company for years until they went out of business, and by next week they'd have another company cleaning and upholding its opulence. However, the last time they had their house upheld was in 1984, when the last business went bankrupt. From then on, the house was basically abandoned, until recently when Sulley's men were called.

Barney Aylmer—she checked that name in the system a ridiculous amount of times and came up mostly dry. The only thing she could find relating to that man was the deed to the house dated to when it was built.

Meaning that he'd been old enough to own a mini-mansion back in the 1870's. And that—she knew with solidity—was a load of steaming shit.

Adding yet another complexity to the list, all three bodies have been identified. Initially, it was an accomplishment for the police department—but once they found out it this was another hidden string in the cobweb, their joy was short-lived.

Martha Carroll, James Raymond and Darla Baggins. All killed ruthlessly; all parents to missing people. The police department tried to withhold the information from the media so the citizens wouldn't indulge in another statewide hysteria, but there efforts were fruitless. 'Some crap about an officer in Putnam County sleeping with a reporter and slipping secrets, she couldn't remember the story anymore.

Forensics had yet to report what animal was responsible for the blood or the slobber. Seeing that this was taking longer than usual, a sickening sensation already made its home in her chest.

It was just an hour after she arrived at the station for another grueling day when she got a call from Putnam County. Abbie rubbed her eyes, resisting the urge yawn as she answered the phone.

"Lieutenant Mills, Westchester County Police Department," she muttered, still wrapped up in information about the Aylmer house.

"_Lieutenant,_" he greeted tersely. _"I have an eye on somebody entering the Aylmer house."_

She sat up straighter, pushing the laptop away and pressing the phone closer to her ear. Ever since discovering the bodies, Putnam County police officers camped out at the house, waiting to see if anyone would return. They'd gone a couple of days without avail and were nearly ready to quit.

"Alright, I'll be over there in an hour. Don't confront him; wait till I get there." She moved to hang up the phone when she heard the officer's voice come again.

"_Lieutenant…he's uh..." _he scrambled for words, and she felt her patience begin to tick away.

"Yes, what is it?" she pressed.

"_The man is bare…naked. Covered in dirt and leaves, too. I didn't see him come up from the road, so he must've gotten onto the property from the forest behind."_

She pursed her lips and held the bridge of her nose. This was ludicrous to the point she was damn near laughing from hysteria. The man who'd managed to duck completely out of police vision, drive her insane and expertly left little traces behind got caught _naked _in front of the manor.

_Naked_.

"Alright. Keep watching him until I show up, stay hidden and only stop him if she tries to leave."

"_Yes ma'am_."

And with that, Abbie sped out of her office so fast she heard a pile of papers tip over and fall from her desk. She clenched and unclenched her keys tightly in her hands, weaving her way around people in the office. There was a confident spring in her step. Small bursts of adrenaline streamed through her veins. Abbie pushed the doors open, exiting.

Outside felt like hell, to no surprise. The sun beat down in a heat so intense she was surprised she didn't combust instantly. The wind scarcely blew and not a single cloud dared to be in sight. But as she drove down the interstate to the next county, the scenery melded from stark blue skies into darker ones. Here, opaque clouds swirled in the ether, thick with rain and omens for a shitty day.

Even the light fog that surrounded the house doubled in intensity. She almost drove her car into the other officer's.

The Putnam County cop gave Abbie a stiff handshake, obviously crept by the environmental phenomena that land was surrounded by. The man shook his head, looking around at the odd sight.

"It doesn't make a lick of sense," he murmured skittishly. She scanned what she could see of the house, still unable to get over the ghastly beauty of the place. The thick fog only seemed to add to the premodern allure.

Saying her farewells, she watched as the officer all but raced away from the property. Insects buzzed and the wind howled in her ears, but it all became white noise as she pushed the heavy gate open. It squealed loudly, causing a flock of ravens to scatter from their places on the spikes.

Everything about this place was surreal, like it didn't belong. From the archaic atmosphere down to the weather, nothing about it seemed commonplace. Even the towering mahogany doors before her came equipped with medieval knockers. For a moment, she began to question if the house was dated even further back than deed stated.

Abbie knocked a few times. She waited a minute. There was no response.

She knocked again, slamming the knockers harder. She waited another minute.

Nothing.

Fuck it, if the guy wanted to play hard, than she'd play right along. She cleared her throat, using the most authoritative, rashest voice she could muster.

"This is Westchester County Police Depa—"

The doors swung open with such force Abbie's hair whipped and billowed around her.

"Bloody hell, _what do you want?_" was the pissy response she received.

If the man didn't already look beat, she would've considered punching him herself. So instead, she settled for crossing her arms and raising a single brow indignantly.

His acerbic, trifling attitude quickly dispersed. She could actually see him scramble for purchase as he worked his jaw a couple of times, his face growing beet red. His posture went ramrod straight, his fingers laced behind his back.

"My deepest apologies; I don't know what came over me…" he drawled, waiting for a name.

"Lieutenant Abigail Mills. And you?" she asked deftly, sticking her hand out. There was a glint in his blue eyes as he glanced from her face to her hand, waiting. Hesitating. She met his guarded stare with a disarming smile, tilting her head expectantly for extra effect.

His cheeks turned a shade darker.

His larger hand engulfed hers with a firm shake.

"Ichabod Crane," he finally said.

_Bingo_.

He moved out of the doorway and invited her in. It was only when she heard the acoustic click did she remember to make sure that he was fully clothed. Although his attire was disheveled and thrown on haphazardly, he was clad.

She eyed him, intrigued. Crane was at least a foot and a head taller than her—much to her demise—with a lanky, sinewy build and impossibly long legs. He naturally gave off an air of poise and importance. Even the graceful way he walked oozed finesse. His unshorn hair was tossed back in a half pony-tail, stray locks framing his prepossessing, angular face.

Howbeit, there was something unbalanced about him that she couldn't pin-point. Something about the light rings underneath his eyes or his detached gaze that gave off a chilling sense of familiarity.

Realizing she was staring, she glanced elsewhere. Crane didn't miss it.

"So what brings you here today, Leftenant?" he chirped while she swept over the grand ballroom. The entire room was classical with its cream white walls, golden designs lacing and engraving them in intricate, ornamental patterns. A large chandelier hung from the high ceiling, refracting the little beacons of light flittering through the dusty window. It seemed like she was the only modern touch inside of the house.

"Two bodies were found on your property a week ago. James Raymond and Darla Baggins if you're familiar with either of them. Both were completely brutalized in ways I'm not sick enough to retell you." She watched his face for a reaction, but his expression was schooled and unwavering. "Apparently someone named _Barney Aylmer _called a yard service to come and fix up the property when they found the bodies." _Amongst other wild things_, she added in her mind.

She pursed her lips together, posture feigning curiosity as she tapped her chin. "However, upon checking the system, the only Barney Aylmer that came up was the one that owned this house back in 1872. And while I'm no biologist, I'm pretty sure there's not many _one-hundred-forty-two_ year olds in human existence. Seeing that you're the only one who we've seen ever come here, I was hoping you'd be able to shed some light?"

At that point, her voice was saccharine and laced with unbidden cynicism, but she didn't care. She spent several hours obsessing over a lie; a man who was dead or possibly never even existed. She was wasting her time on another red herring, but she wanted to see him squirm.

Instead of being distressed or nonplussed like she expected, he remained aplomb. Hell, maybe even more so than before if the feral glimmer in his eyes were an indicator. She suddenly became antsy underneath his gaze, ultra-aware of everything. The air felt too stuffy, collar too tight. She licked her lips and stared down at the floor, questioning where the random burst of anxiety came from.

"Have you ever heard of Lycanism?"

Her head snapped back up, dark eyes wide in astonishment.

"_Lycanism_?" she repeated dumbly. Crane nodded, walking in languid circles around her.

"Yes, Leftenant. As in Lycanthropy, shifters, werewolves, skin walkers, etcetera. Surely you've heard of those."

Abbie bit her lip hard. "Of course I have, but what does _Lycanism _have to do with anything?"

He stopped walking and stood in front of her, far too close for to her breathe correctly.

"The thing is, Miss Mills, Lycanism has to do with _everything_. The missing children, the dead bodies, the _revoltingly_ thick drool—"

"How do you know about that?" her voice rose an octave. The police had been _especially _careful about not releasing that piece of information until they figured out what made it. "I _asked _you a question." Her voice was clipped and forceful. This guy was spewing irrational lunacy, but she didn't need him going around running his trap to those willing to listen. And with the entire state at a standby, there was many patrons to this madness.

"Because I've _seen_ what Lycans have done before! I _know_ what they are capable of, I _know _what they can do. You've seen the bodies yourself, Leftenant—did any of those look remotely human? Have you ever seen a human _claw_ someone into slivers of meat and scatter body like rain?" he stressed, struggling to keep his voice controlled.

She shook her head furiously, taking a step away from him. Nothing he was saying made a shard of sense, but simultaneously, neither did the case. However, she wasn't going to listen to him. She _refused _to let him talk her into believing a bunch of farcical, superstitious _bullshit _so she could end up in a mental ward like her mother!

"Lycans do not exist! Neither do werewolves and skin walkers and shifters—they're all _fake_." Her chest heaved, and she forced her arms to stay be her sides. "The world is a fucked up place filled with fucked up people; we don't _need _some supernatural nonsense to explain something that was caused by _people_. _Humans_, like you and me, Crane!"

His composure was cracking, she could see it in the way he clenched and unclenched his fists. The way his jaw ticked and ground tightly. The way she could almost _hear_ his silent plea in his aquamarine depths.

"The police will never be able to find these children," his voice was unfittingly icy. So chilled that she felt a tingle run up her spine like a cold finger. "You won't, the detectives won't—literally _no one _will be able find these people as long as you all keep thinking they're _bloody damn __**human**_!"

His voice was a roar. Thunderous. Exasperated. Wild, but so distraught she felt sadness rip through her chest like knife.

The fraught silence afterward was obnoxious enough to be loud. The rain pattered raucously outside. She could hear his labored breaths. She could taste the blood from her lip on her tongue.

"You're insane." She forced herself to move. It felt like her body was composed of rusty metal. She wasn't going to be like her mom damn it, and definitely not from listening to some deceitful stranger she just met. "You're insane." She repeated with finality.

She needed to leave. She needed air.

Crane sighed hopelessly.

"Miss Mills—" she heard him start behind her. Abbie grabbed the knob and pulled the door open. She had enough this.

"_Miss Mills_—"

She didn't even get a chance to stick her foot out the door before it slammed close. She let out a small gasp, the ground seemingly moving away from her she as was pinned up against door. Her thighs hugged his hips for support. She could feel his chest against hers. Abbie didn't even know when he _moved_.

"Miss Mills," Crane tried again. His voice was and low restored with patience. She glanced anywhere but his face—the chandelier that shimmered high above, the steady leak in the corner of the ballroom. Having none of that, he lifted her chin with his thumb, willing her to look him in the eyes. And when she did, she decided it was less intense staring into the sun.

Lightning floodlit the room in a pale luminescence, the light surrounding him like a nimbus for a split-second. It went back to the gloom. The thunder rattled the house.

"I'm not insane—" she could still argue against that. "—and I'm going to prove to you the Lycanism is not just a bedtime fable."

Crane let her go, and she slid numbly to her feet. She had every reason to hurt him, every reason get the hell out of there, but she stayed. Whether or not that decision was a mistake, she didn't know yet. But she didn't run, she didn't flee.

Lightning illuminated the room again. This one brighter than the last. Darkness fell.

Crane pulled back the sleeve on his arm, stretching his long fingers. He closed his eyes in concentration. This would've been a prime time to escape.

There was a pregnant stretch of silence before she started to see the rapid, animalistic change in his arm and hands. Even through the gloom, she could see the dark claws unsheathing from his skin, glistening with blood.

The lightning's so bright this time it stayed there for a couple of seconds. It went dark again, but this time it was her vision instead.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: All feedback is hella appreciated, yo.**

**-tla**


	2. Maelstrom

**A/N: This chapter does more world building and explaining than the last one. I'm still leaving some things vague cause I plan on elaborating later in the story. Fuck ups are guaranteed and hopefully excused because I don't have a beta. Adieu, yo. **

**Note: This chapter wasn't as fun to write as the Abbie-centric ones, so if my writing is kinda ****_meh_****, this is why. For the same reason, this chapter is short and choppy from extensive editing. :/**

**-tla**

* * *

><p><strong><em>solstice<em>**

maelstrom

* * *

><p><strong><em>i.<em>**

_For once in his life, Crane found it hard to fall asleep. _Unconsciousness didn't wash over and pull him into a dreamless slumber like it used to. Instead, he laid awake in the shadowy room, staring blankly at the high ceiling in hopes of becoming bored enough to doze off. However—whether it be from the waxing gibbous moon or the tiny vixen that once graced his presence hours ago—his mind had other plans for him that evening.

Thoughts swirled riotously in his head like a violent eddy. Images, sensations, sounds—mostly, if not completely—revolving around _her_. He forced the palms of his hands over his eyes. God knew Ichabod was far from a sex depraved degenerate, but yet his mind kept finding its way back to the events that transpired earlier. Like the way her supple thighs wrapped perfectly around his hips. How she'd unknowingly taken her bottom lip between her teeth when she was nervous. The endearing way she scrunched her nose when she'd caught him in his Barney Aylmer lie.

The woman was pure sin.

_Abigail_, he reminded himself. Not "the woman". She had a name; one he'd forget upon a cold day in hell.

Ichabod took in a deep breath of air, hoping to chill his searing skin. His heart palpitated in his chest. His sense of touch heightened. His lengthy canines protruded into his tongue and if his trousers got any tighter he swore he was going to tear them off.

But Crane was a man—a wolf man, but a man nonetheless—and his subconscious did at it pleased. Heavens, that _seraphic _expanse of smooth skin on her neck was going to be his undoing...

_To hell with this! _He thought, throwing the thick sheets off of his oversensitive body. Sleep was too far from him to pretend it was coming soon. He stretched his limbs; the burn and pull in his taut muscles was momentary bliss.

He took his signature coat, wrapped it around his shoulders and exited his room. If his thoughts wanted to run amok, they were going to be about the earth-shattering damage he'd left in his quake. Much less pleasant than the ones about the lieutenant, but he digressed.

The empty, barren hallways echoed with each step he took. Cobwebs and dust coated the ground in white, leaving large footprints behind him. It was quiet enough for him to hear the cattle mooing and huffing in the fields outside of the manor.

And that—incredibly so—perturbed him.

This house never used to be quiet. In its long two centuries since being built, Crane couldn't remember a _single day _where it'd been noiseless. If it wasn't clatter from his large pack the manor housed, than it was from the constant barrage of ambassadors, nobles and royalty flooding the hallways every week. Divine melodies used to dance along each corridor. Delicacies from all over Lycanthrope territories once filled the air with a mouthwatering aroma. Elan and exuberance used to draw in nobles like a moth to a flame.

But now?

Crane kicked away a large shard of broken glass on the floor.

This house was _nothing_. Nothing but dust and shadows. Ghosts. Phantoms.

He felt his claws itching to be stretched, his primal counterpart obviously less than pleased at the turn of events. He pressed his fingertips into his palms.

His legs had a mind of their own as they led him across the tiled floors, exploring the house as if it was his first time again. As if he hadn't memorized every room, trapdoor and hallway like a mantra. But seeing the stark contrast in ambience from now and then, it might've well been an entirely new building.

He skirted past the enormous kitchen—which at one point held every spice known to man—and the desolate longue room. Past the innumerable doors that led to rooms and closets, others into hidden passageways. Many doors were left wide open—some disturbingly snatched right off the hinges—and let him peer into the deserted living quarters. Books, scrolls and sheets were strewn everywhere in most of them. A few walls were speckled and marred with mold, and for others, blood.

Crane stopped at the splintered doorway to his sigma's room, his fingers curling around the brass doorknob as if it was the offender. This room—like the others—was completely disarray. That was out of character for his sigma. The man was almost as compulsively neat as Ichabod. Clothes were scattered and piled up on practically every surface. Ink-stained parchment covered his desk and the plush chair beside it, too.

He spotted the younger man's half-packed suitcase on its side. Crane rolled it over, rifling through the dusty garments. Toothbrushes, knives, an empty bottle of lunar essence—the bare essentials. His sigma tried to leave. The red blotches on his sheets told Ichabod he didn't get far.

Crane moved onto the next object of interest; the ink stained parchments. Although most of it was tarnished and illegible, he could make out a couple of sentences.

_—an't watch this madness unfurl before me any longer. The Almighty knows it; He knows I am weak. He knows that whatever will I had left sapped away with my last vial of lunar essence. I—_

_—ham wants to continue protecting what little there is left to protect. I do not have the heart to tell him that I wasn't born to take up a position as a bet—_

_—this now, as I stare into the abyss and it stares back, my thoughts continue to reel about the man I assumed I knew like kin. The man who said he would take up after the fallen Parliament and raise us back from the ashes. Our leader! Our Alpha! Yet he, even more so than omegas, showed pusillanimity at the omen of peril. When Bethany told me he fled into the night, I'd sooner thought he was slain than—_

The writing ceased. His hands quivered as he set the paper on the desk. Crane swallowed thickly, his face flush and clammy.

God, he did this.

He needed to leave the room.

His thoughts were even more befuddled than before, trying to fill in the missing blanks by sorting through his memories. He knew about Parliament falling—he recalled the entire day in explicit detail. From the flakey, hot scones he had at sunrise to the arduous night he spent planning with his pack to restore order and build a new government.

Hell, he and the entire Lycanthrope people knew that day was coming long before it came. Parliament was corrupted; the council was power hungry. They were less concerned with keeping the supernatural at bay than they were with seizing land and getting rid of nuisances that threatened their positions as supreme. But their greed came bounding out their heels like a hellhound. People rioted, they revolted.

It was a countdown for all—not just the Lycanthropes. Faes, demons, witches and lesser entities—most of which are undoubtedly extinct now—were at a standby for the day it would all plunge through. Waiting for when the last councilman was either killed or resigned under pressure.

Because right after that, it would be unadulterated anarchy. Open season for humans.

The familiar, stale scent of his old friend jolted him out of his thoughts. Crane didn't even realize he walked all the way to the war chamber on the highest floor. He ran his fingertips along the icy steel doors, sliding his calloused thumbs over the bolts, nuts and switches. This room was undisputedly the most guarded one in the entire manor—more hexes fortifying these doors than surrounding the house.

Crane made quick work of the locks before pulling them open. They whined and creaked from disuse and rust, sending a shrill noise barreling down the halls. Immediately upon entering, the lights flickered to life. An irritating buzz from one bulbs made his skin crawl.

This room, naturally, was less ornate than the others in the house. There weren't any extravagant, golden embellishments on the bare metal walls, no crocheted doilies on each table. Everything in the room was strictly military.

Crane swept the thick layer of dust off the table map, giving the complicated boundaries of the supernatural world a quick once over. God, he remembered the amount of hours he and Abraham spent mulling over this damned table. How many sleepless nights they wasted strategizing, preparing for the collapse of Parliament for the entire plan to fall flat on its _ass_.

He made it over to the weapon racks on the right wall, eyeing the impressive collection he and his pack gathered. Despite the hollow gape in the pit of his stomach, he felt pride warm his chest. Ancient artifacts, cursed objects, spell books, poison vials, swords, battleaxes—they spent years scouring the earth for them. So much blood was shed to make sure that these numinous armaments were kept far away from malicious hands.

The few belonging to specific pack members were absent. The wide space where Abraham's battle-axe used to be was covered in grime. He scoured the rest of the extensive assortment for his, coming up dry minutes later. He flexed his fingers, tension building in his body. If anybody got a hold of the Methuselah, they were in for one hell of surprise when they used it.

Crane was on the brink of turning the entire war room upside down when he found the broadsword on his seat at the table. He picked up the long weapon, unsheathing it to its full length. The thick blade gleamed glossily in the dim light, almost as if it was sentient and welcoming his long-awaited presence. As his eyes traveled down the weapon's form, he spotted a piece of curled paper at its hilt.

He opened it up, reading over the contents with a heavy heart.

_December 13__th__, 1984_

_Whenever you decide to stop being a bloody fucking asswipe, you can find me in Purgatory. I'll be there every single day until you arrive._

_-A. V. B._

Crane gripped the yellowed paper. His vision swirled. His stomach lurched.

Abraham wrote this thirty years ago. _Thirty years_. Three-hundred-sixty months. One-thousand-four-hundred-forty weeks. Ten-thousand—

_Stop! _His inner wolf wailed before he could get lost in a plethora of numbers. In the sheer amount of_ time _he spent ambling around in the woods until Abigail somehow knocked him out of his hoodoo-induced slumber.

God, was Abraham even alive anymore? Was _any _of his pack still breathing today?

Crane stared down at the paper in his hand, his vision blurry. He didn't know where they were now, but he knew where to start.

**_ii._**

The next couple of days for the former alpha was a blur. A whirlpool of emotions and flittering images and sounds he's since stopped trying to make out. And today—this supernaturally-caused cloudy afternoon—was no different

He spent most of his time outside of his manor, looking further into the abductions daily, watching the numbers of missing people climb mercilessly. Even _he_—the esteemed Lycanthrope philosopher and ex-General—was baffled how the Lycan's managed to capture an appalling amount of children without leaving a trace behind for him to follow—it was more than infuriating. This only strengthened Crane's need to reach his old friend.

Crane knew where Abraham was the moment he read _Purgatory_. His beta wasn't residing in the inescapable limbo between worlds, but rather in a shabby bar and brothel in Maine he frequented before the war. Ichabod remembered how much he _loathed _that god forsaken, filthy place. It was a den of iniquity—so vile he was sure the seventh chamber in Hell was their chief inspiration. He couldn't—to save his life—figure out why his comrade treasured that place so damn much.

Nonetheless, if Abraham held true to his note, he would be there. Ichabod's stalling to pay his old friend a visit wasn't a matter doubt. Before Crane had taken over the pack due to complications with Parliament, Abraham was the alpha. He had faith in his comrade's strength—he was completely sure the man was a survivor.

_However_, if he were to come face-to-face with his beta again, he doubted he'd be one.

"Mr. Crane!"

He glanced at one of the many people on the property before he found the plump, elderly lady waving him over. He set his wine down a table outside and strode over to the florist. The woman, Amelia Thorne, was the best money could buy in all of New York. Her handiwork and simple—yet brilliant—flower garden designs rivaled those of the nymphs.

Mrs. Thorne stood up from her chair, wiping gray hair away from her round face. Even standing up, the astute lady barely reached his chest. She frowned, scanning the vast expanse of soil being treated to nurture delicate flora.

"You never did tell me what kind of flowers you wanted out here," she started, a musing expression on her face. "But you know what—doesn't really matter. Red brick houses look _phenomenal _with some achillieas! Oh, butterfly weeds and rudbeckias, too. We could even put some sunflowers in the mix, if you're willing—"

"She hasn't decided yet." Crane interrupted, seeing that the chatty, graying woman didn't plan on stopping anytime soon. It was times like this when he recalled how much older he was than humans. Mrs. Thorne made an "o" with her mouth, realization dawning on her.

"This is for a _woman_! Huh, all this time I thought you were—"

Crane raised an eyebrow.

"…never mind." She covered quickly. "One helluva' lucky lady, you got there. Wish my husband would do something like this for me."

Crane pulled his coat closer to his body as a cool wind blew by. While the past few days were mostly filled with empty humdrum, he's made it his mission to restore the splendor of the manor. He's gotten the moldy walls replaced, the technology updated, the busted glasses fixed. Maids and cleaning crews have been zipping in and out of his house all week, getting rid of the musty smell, rodents and dust. The creamy, marble floors have been polished to the point he could see his reflection anywhere he walked.

And while most of the renovations were done out of guilt for abandoning the house and his pack, he'd be lying if he said wasn't thinking of Abigail the entire time.

Just reminiscing about her made his heart pound and his face heat—this time around he couldn't even blame it on the moon. He had an attraction towards the lieutenant that was beyond the human, secular ideas of romance and desire. It was primal. It was pure.

And that's why he found himself uprooting his entire backyard, so that maybe one day...

Crane shook his head at the thought. Wishful thinking was never his thing.

A few hours later, after Mrs. Thorne and her men left, he headed to the center of Phillipstown. Crane crossed the empty highways. The sun was just beginning to lower behind the tree line, the heavens washed in radiant hues of cream, orange and pink. Thin, stratus clouds surrounded the bright sphere like a halo. Warm air tossed his hair every which way, but he didn't mind.

Phillipstown was a small city with a population barely reaching over ten-thousand; the place was ideal for woodland supernatural life. There were dense forests all throughout the area, prey was abundant, and there wasn't many visitors. The nightlife here was a pub short of nonexistent, but yet he still found himself looking for somewhere to get a drink. Ever since waking up, everyday has been grueling and unpleasant. Responsibilities he'd fled from in the first place were catching up, hounding him with each passing day. He only had so long before he had to get back to business—he was going to relish the time he had before it.

Crane pulled up to bar's parking lot, hopping out the car seconds later. He wasn't too familiar with the establishment _Jimmy's Bar and Steakhouse_—seeing that it was built during his absence—but from the smoky scent of beef wafting through the air, it couldn't possibly haven been unsavory.

It smelled delectable, even though animal meat wasn't the kind he preferred.

The building was modest with a cozy aura. The walls and floors were made out of wood, the tables decorated with plaid sheets and a single, low-burning candle in the center. Acoustic folk music resonated throughout the bar. The tavern appealed to an older crowd, he assumed, looking at the men—all who must've been at least forty and older.

Crane sat down on a worn stool, ordering malt whiskey from the top shelf. A woman behind the counter poured his cup, giving a flirty grin as he sipped it. It was a minute later when he finished, already asking for a refill. Not only could he handle his liquor, but human whiskey did bugger all for werewolves. He could down an entire bottle of their strongest drink and just feel somewhat tipsy at the end. Sometimes—such as now—it was maddening.

He didn't want to get tipsy; he wanted to get so inebriated that he couldn't tell up from down or left from right.

The small TV droned on about the news, highlighting a few insignificant stories. He tapped the corner of his glass, listening to mind-numbing reports rather than the gentleman next to his raunchy, obviously fabricated tales.

_"—another _forty-six_ people went missing this past week all over New York, making this a record high in the case."_

Ichabod sucked in air through his mouth, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. No matter where he went—or how much he hid—it was evident his omissions were going to keep haunting him like a wraith. He couldn't keep running away anymore, deferring his burdens as if he had the leisure to. As if his negligence wasn't the reason why hundreds have been abducted by Lycans.

The woman continued to report about the morbidity of the case. How investigators were left baffled; how the government organizations were grasping at straws for an answer. Terrorists? Mobs? Smugglers? By the time the story passed, there was a crack in his glass for grasping it too tight.

Crane withdrew his hand, sheathing his claws in hopes that no one caught his err. He was getting careless about controlling his body. Mood completely soured, he glared down at his drink. It was a mistake coming out tonight.

"Having a bad day?"

He glanced up, catching eyes with the woman—Shelly? Stella?—who poured his drink earlier. Now, she sat close to him, her blouse unbuttoned daringly low and her blonde hair falling around her shoulders. It didn't take a scholar to know she was interested.

"You could say," he muttered curtly, choosing to stare at the clock instead of her eyes. Crane wasn't a standoffish person—quite the contrary, seeing that living in the bustling manor forced him to be sociable—but he could literally feel the heat rolling off of her in waves. She was eyeing him down like a piece of fresh meat and he never needed to leave a situation as hastily as he did now.

She curled a strand of hair around her finger. "You don't talk much, do you?" she smirked. "It's always the quiet ones."

He cleared his throat, his face heating up. "Well, it's getting late; I should—"

"It's only nine o'clock."

"I have business to attend back at home—"

"So do I, but we can make amends."

The lady grabbed the rest of his drink and knocked it back, eyes wild and shameless.

He held back a frustrated sigh. Being an alpha came with its perks and cons. Perks being that people were more inclined to submit to him, to follow his rules committedly without needing to reinforce it. On the other hand, his natural prowess led to situations such as _this_—where humans and lesser entities were oblivious of their beguilement and acted on a whim.

It was when she placed her hand on his inner thigh did he slide out of his chair, tossing a bill on the counter, and marched right out the doors. He was a grown man. He'll be damned before he let a tiny, human woman fondle and feel him up without his consent.

But the waitress was persistent. Her shoes clacked behind him until she grabbed his elbow and spun him around.

"Hey, _hey_!" she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Look, I'm sorry if I'm coming on strong, but there's just _something _about you that I can't—"

Crane, out of many options, grabbed her shoulders. She hushed immediately, staring down at her feet and twiddling her thumbs. She was anxious. Nervous. He lifted her head, forcing her to look into his eyes.

"You will go home and forget this ever happened." He instructed, his voice already straining. The flustered woman was now torpid. Not nonplussed, but void of any sentiments or thoughts. She nodded mechanically, body rigid, and walked away. She stepped into her car and peeled out of the parking lot.

The instant she left, blood gushed out of his nose in a steady stream.

He let out a silent cry, clutching his head. Everything was white. Everything burned. Each breath he took felt like task and—God help him—it felt like the ground was consuming him whole. He pressed his back against the wall, staring skyward until his vision cleared and the pain dulled into an erratic throb.

**_iii._**

Eastport, Maine, Crane decided, was one of more repugnant sights in North America. The entire town was timeworn, but not in the classical sense that his manor was. The buildings were decaying, most—if not all—were in despairing need for repair. The deserted roads were poorly constructed with street lights that seldom worked. Not that they needed it, anyway. A couple hundred—one-thousand at best—people lived here. Most of which were lesser entities like sirens and selkies since the town was surrounded by water.

The sky was somber and leaden with portents for a heavy shower. The air was arctic, the streets were slick with frost—without doubt the environmental phenomena of a powerful hex from an adept warlock. He took in a deep breath, inhaling the fresh, salty scent in the air. Fish and seaweed were the most dominant odors, but after another whiff he could detect the dank rot of witches and succubus. _Purgatory _was near.

The Methuselah was strapped against his back, each burdened step he took made the weapon rattle. He didn't want to bring his sword along, but Crane knew Abraham better than anyone else. If he expected to come before his old friend again, it was best to be prepared for the fight he feared would happen.

Another howling gust tousled his hair, whistling through the empty buildings and streets. He could hear the slow, sultry music from the brothel a block away. He clenched his jaw, driving himself to calm down.

When he finally pushed the dense doors open, heat enveloped him like a thick, sweltering blanket of fire. He almost laughed at the familiarity of it all. Seemingly nothing about the hellish pit has changed since the last time he unwilling stepped inside. Down to the objectionable décor to the scantily dressed women; it was as if the entire brothel—hell, _town_—was trapped in a time paradox.

Crane, however, did spot one difference. It came in the form of several people staring at him as if he'd risen right through the crust of Hell before them. To say they were unpleasantly surprised was too far of an understatement. He didn't have to be empathic to know everyone there was brimming with well-placed odium. Their slit, sable eyes, tightened fists and jittery movements were telltale.

Instinctively, he pulled the lapels of his coat tighter around himself, eyes downcast to avoid confrontation.

_Pay them no mind, _he told himself. More accurately, his inner wolf. The fiend was roaring inside of him, adding fuel to a fire that scorched his throat and chest. Crane could feel every single pair of eyes on him, turning heads as he ambled to the shrouded booth Abraham dubbed his years afore.

Even with the music drowning every other recognizable sound, he could acutely _hear _them. The blood coursing through their veins. The mutters. The lies.

It didn't take more than ten minutes to find his destination. But as long as he spent staring at the soiled, red veil from afar, it could've been another thirty years.

_It's now or never._

He threw back the curtain. Crane's breath hitched.

Through the nearly impenetrable gloom shrouding every inch of the brothel, he could see the woebegone, chaotic state Abraham was in. Sickly alabaster skin, a light sheen of sweat coating his forehead, lackluster ash-blond hair tucked into a half-assed ponytail—he looked ghoulish. His back was hunched over the side of the settee, his prized overcoat in a crumpled heap next to his foot. Abraham pinched his nose, letting out a brusque huff.

"Anabelle, I told you to leave me—"

He snapped his head in Crane's direction. For the first time in three decades, their eyes locked.

Abraham blinked—once, twice—his body stiff. His index finger twitched, his Adam's apple bobbed. Those were the only signs given that he registered Crane's presence.

It was mere seconds later did Crane regret coming to the bordello that lived up to its name. This—like many of the choices he's made—was a mistake. The pressing crisis of the Lycan's apparently was just scratching the surface of the havoc he left behind.

Abraham continued to stare, eyes guarded and face set with unreadable emotion. His jaw was tight and the betraying vein at his neck bulged. He was a ticking time bomb.

Ichabod was the first to speak.

"Abraham—"

"What the hell do you want?" he cut in, gathering his coat and shrugging it on. Crane ran his hands through fallow locks, scrambling for effective words. But what could be said?

"I need your help." He began slowly, as if testing out foreign syllables on his tongue.

There was a beat of silence.

Abraham let out an obnoxious bark. So loud that the room reverberated with his deep, mirthless laughter. So loud he was sure people stopped their profane rutting to pay attention.

"You need _my _help?" he snarled, wiping a tear from unsympathetic eyes. "The same way we all needed your help after Parliament fell?" he pulled up his silver-lined collar around his neck. Dread and regret pooled in Crane's stomach until he felt nauseous.

"Nothing I can say now or ever will make up for what I did, but I need your help. I _need _to fix this disorder that I caused, and I cannot do it alone."

"It's far too late for an apology, Ichabod!" his faux level-headedness was gone. He stepped into his alpha's space, chest heaving with anger. "_You _destroyed us! _You _left us _all _to die while you ran away with you your tail-tucked between your legs!" Abraham stepped back, gripping his platinum strands between his fingers. He rubbed his hands over his bruised lids.

This was a hollow shell of the man Crane used to know.

"While we spent countless nights trying to stop the anarchy and bloodshed, _you _ran to a bloody fucking _witch doctor _and put yourself into a slumber! I went out _every day _for months—_months_, Ichabod!—hoping that the rumors were lies!" he swung back around, pointing his unsheathed claw at Crane. His eyes were slanted in malice, venom on his tongue.

"How much did it cost you, Crane?" his voice took over an icy chill. "How much did you give the witch doctor so that she could put you to sleep for _thirty years_?" when the alpha didn't respond, he slammed his fist into the wall. The entire building trembled. "_How much?!_"

"_Everything_!" Crane finally roared, his emotions unstable. He never felt so vulnerable—_exposed and raw and open_—as he did now. He wore his sins on his sleeve and Abraham was condemning him to damnation. "I gave her _everything_! I gave up, Abraham—there was nothing to left to save! They killed my _father _and left whatever bits they could salvage at our door. Lycanthrope _empires _came tumbling down one after the other. What was I to do?!"

"_Fight_, _goddamn it_!"

The music had since stopped playing. The people were long ago silenced by the authority the emitting off of both of them.

Metal sliding off of each other became the only sound.

The Methuselah clashed against the Axe of Enoch, both weapons burning with divine influence. They struggled for the stronger hold before coming again and again in the symphony of battle. Both were matched—they knew each other far too well in combat for either to make it out winning or alive.

Like how Crane knew Abraham became a brute when he was livid, that all his attacks were wild and predictably unpredictable. He'd swing his axe to and fro, seeking fatality with each thrust. Crane knew where to block each time he advanced. Same as Abraham knew his alpha hesitated whenever he used the Methuselah against kin, giving him that _precious _moment right before impact to knock his sword back with vehemence.

Crane ducked, narrowly missing the blazing poleax that flew above his head. He hissed, the hot pain singing his scalp. He leapt across the bar, popping his shoulder back in place while he was granted the time. He pressed his back against the rack as the axe came crashing down onto counter, splitting it in half.

Crane swore, meeting blades with Abraham again. Abraham was always more robust than he, and his unpractice was proving to be his downfall. He skittered to the side, wiping the blood pouring over his eye with the back of his hand. He moved to strike again, but Abraham was swift and charged like lightning.

He knocked the Methuselah out of Crane's grasp; he could only watch helplessly as it clattered to floor. Using the split second before his alpha regained his senses, he enclosed his hands around Crane's neck and slammed him onto the remaining surface of the bar.

Air rushed out of Crane's lungs, his vision burning white for a twinkling. Abraham held the Axe of Enoch so close to his neck he could sense his skin sizzling from the sheer proximity. He hissed, digging his claws into Abraham's skin, but the man was unyielding.

"I waited thirty years for you to come back, and now all I want is for you to be _gone_!" He appeared as disconsolate and cross as Crane was the day he came to in the woods. Crane took in a strangled, shuddering breath, adeptly blocking out the roots from onlookers who chanted for his demise.

"_Lycans_," he wheezed. His random response threw Abraham off, his eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

"What?"

"The _Lycans_, Abraham!" Abraham's grip slackened a fraction. Crane gathered all of the strength he could muster, seizing the axe's hilt and kicking Abraham into the shelves. The wood let out a low whine before giving out under pressure. Bottles of fine wine and liquor came crashing down, glass and liquid spraying everywhere.

Without the power of its master, the poleax's red, pulsating heat dimmed into nothingness. Abraham glowered, soaked and struggling to get up. He held the slippery wall for support, but that showed futile.

"I did not come here to _fight you_!" he roared, blue eyes wide and glittering with frustration. He hurled the poleax into the furthest wall, the blade burying itself into the plaster. His arm convulsed in pain, but he ignored it. "I did not come here seek solace for my actions, nor to beg for your forgiveness!"

Abraham's fingers were curled into fists, his canines fully erect, but he didn't move.

"I'm here because Lycan's have been running rampant, rebuilding their military with _human children_!" He searched his old friend's face for something—anything—other than the shock that made his body rigid. Wrath welled up in Crane's chest, his skin prickling with heat that rivaled Axe of Enoch. "Nearly four-hundred people have vanished, three shredded bodies have been found. Hell, they apparently left _two _of them at the goddamn manor with their _filth _all over for everyone to see. They've declared war on us, Abraham, and they're using humans as fodder!"

When Abraham didn't show a flicker of recognition, Crane collectively lost his shit.

"_You didn't __**know**__ this_?!" he grabbed Abraham by the coat and threw him up against the wall. His body ached and opposed, but the beast inside of him was eating it up. Savoring the burn like whiskey. "How could you _not know_ this?! The news is _everywhere_!" He punctuated his fury by throwing him over the smoldered counter and into the crowd of entities. The demons and succubus seized him before he could hit the floor. "It's in the newspaper, the media—spreading like wildfire all over the nation! The American government has gotten involved, and it's only a matter of time before they figure us out unless something is _done_!"

And then it all made sense. Everything pieced together like a puzzle. The archaic place he resided in, the time stand-still, the lack of easy-access information that should've long ago rang warning bells all over this town.

Abraham had ran away too.

Crane swallowed thickly, snatching his sword from the floor. He cast one last glance at Abraham and left.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Once again, this is a very ****_meeeeeh _****chapter that I really didn't enjoy writing—hence the wait and shortened length. But luckily there are very few Crane-centric chapters I have planned for this story; most of it will be from Abbie's point of view. **

**Anyways, next chapter is going to be a helluva lot more interesting and filled with more Ichabbie other than Crane's creepy, wolf man pining. Till next time, yo.**


	3. Phantasmagorical

**A/N: Well, this chapter somehow came out later than the last. Sorry for the wait; the original premise for this chapter got cut for something—hopefully—more interesting. You know the drill; screw ups are to be expected because I'm a lazy shit.**

**Note: thank all of you beauties for taking the time outta y'all day to review. Bless. I made this chapter longer to make up for the time it took to update.**

**-tla**

* * *

><p><strong><em>solstice<em>**

phantasmagorical

* * *

><p><strong><em>i.<em>**

_There were three habitual rules in Abbie's life. _

One; survive.

Two; trust no one.

Three; stay _the fuck away _from _anything_ that dealt with the paranormal.

The last decree—as unorthodox as it was—happened to be the most prominent factor for her straight-laced personality, "_no bullshit_" values and patent skepticism about religion. The distance she went to avoid everything superstitious was admirable—or possibly unwholesome and compulsive.

She couldn't decide yet.

Abbie well-nigh excommunicated the members of her old, Catholic ministry the moment her mother was forced to stop making her to go. Most—hell, if not _all_—of her heavily religious family members were debarred, the little words shared between them saved for rare reunions or funerals.

So with that being said, it was nothing short of laughable that the cynic stood before _Adaeze's Undead Emporium_; distraught and at loss for any other place to go.

She let out a beaten sigh, pushing the door open.

Aside from the light flittering in through thin curtains, the place was shrouded in an unsettling gloom. She shoved her hands into her jean's pockets, willing them to still along with the thrumming in her chest. The shoppe was overwrought with vibrant colors; each wall holding a different hue from the spectrum. An assortment of disturbing, dark masks and equally distressing artwork hung in clusters separated by culture. The deep, wooden shelves were stacked with hand-made ceramics, candles and oils. Half of the other relics she couldn't even begin to name, though she had a grudging knowledge of many.

On the opposite side of the store, the entire wall was amassed with books, scrolls and pamphlets from what looked like all sections of the timeline. The yellowed, moldy bindings and dank odor definitely couldn't have come from any modern day works.

Foreign music played a decibel above a whisper, but still managed to be the loudest sound in the confined space. It was obvious _Adaeze's _didn't get much business if it's vacancy during the afternoon rush was an indicator.

She peered around the shelves—attentive not to touch anything—searching for an employee or anybody willing to assist. However, as three minutes passed by without a goddamn living thing in sight, she was prepared to call it quits.

That and the shrunken head on display was starting to get to her.

The entrance door swung open, a flurry of wind sweeping through the establishment like a much needed breath of fresh air. Abbie swung around, facing the newcomer with tense, wide eyes.

"Calm down, suga'. Ain't no need to be scared." The old woman crooned, shutting the door behind her. She flashed a hospitable, wrinkled smile, extending her hand. "I'm Adaeze."

Adaeze's laidback mannerisms put her at momentary ease. Abbie returned the beam, holding her warm, calloused fingers between her own.

The moment was short-lived.

Adaeze snatched her hand away, grasping her fingertips as if they were scalded. Abbie's arm fell limply to her side. The hairs at the nape of her neck stood straight. Her pulse quickened.

She studied Adaeze's wrinkled face. Bushy eyebrows stitched together. Over blown eyes flicking from her hand to Abbie. Lips pulled into a taut "o". She stared at her as if she was the devil himself.

"I need to—I've got to go." She fumbled, desperate for an excuse to get the hell out of there. She sidestepped the flummoxed owner, laying siege upon her bottom lip with her teeth.

Going there was a mistake.

She couldn't even fathom why the hell she thought this was a bright idea in the first place. She didn't spend ten years of her life avoiding everything that reminded of her of her mother for no reason. She didn't stop talking to Aunt Mae, Uncle Phil and _her own fucking sister _just so she could go running back to same bullshit that ruined her to begin with.

But what was she supposed to _do_? Where was she supposed to go since _science _and _logic _and _everything else _told her that what she saw two weeks ago didn't exist?

For fuck's sake, she spent every day—every hour, every minute, every _second_—second-guessing herself about what happened.

_"Have you ever heard of Lycanism?"_

There were nights where she stared at the ceiling for hours, wondering if she was going to go insane like her mother. Or suffer from chronic dementia and take her life like her father.

_ "I'm going to prove to you that Lycanism is not just a bedtime fable."_

She remembered everything in such vivid detail. Crane's rigid posture, the lightning, the _claws_. She remembered everything going black, and then waking up in her squad car with a throbbing, red bruise on her neck.

She couldn't take the lunacy anymore. She just, _she just_—

Adaeze's fingers on her shoulder jerked her out of her turmoil. She was still inside of the store, hand gripping the handle for dear life, but never left.

"C'mon, girl. You need'a sit down."

Abbie swallowed the lump in her throat, moving away from the exit. She pulled out one of the chairs from a squat, round table. The elderly woman picked up a deck of cards—which Abbie soon recognized as tarot cards—from one of the shelves. She lumbered back to the table, sitting down with a long, haunted sigh. Adaeze spread them over the surface, picture-side down.

"You rollin' in evil girl." she muttered, voice grave and face grim. The shop owner began to fix the cards in straight rows. "You got somethin' _nasty _out for ya. Somethin' vile out there try'na get a hold of that soul." Her all-knowing eyes flicked up to the bruise on her neck. Abbie subconsciously kneaded the tender spot.

"Pick three of the cards, hon'. I'll be able to see what wickedness lies ahead by your choices." Adaeze pulled back in the chair, arms folding over her midsection. Her gaze never left Abbie's throat.

She grazed her fingers along the overelaborated backs of the cards, eyeing each one she passed over. She knew tarot cards were spurious; that whichever ones you chose were because of statics rather than "fate" and "destiny", but that knowledge did fuck-all to stop her skin from becoming sticky and pricking with perspiration.

Abbie flipped over the first one. It read_ The Hanged Man_.

She flipped over the second one. It read _Death_.

And with the last bit of resolve she had left, she overturned the third one. It read _The Devil_.

Adaeze croaked. A nearby candle snuffed out.

She rubbed her palms over her eyes and mumbled something akin to a silent prayer.

"_The Hanged Man _means to be adaptin' to new circumstances. It means enlightenment, learnin'. Somethin' in your life is changin' and if you don't start movin' with it—" she ran her index across her neck. "—that's gonna' be the end of you."

"_Death_," she continued. "This one ain't as bad as it sounds—maybe even a hidden blessing if you let it be. There's a transformation; a new cycle is waiting for you."

Adaeze gripped the last card so tight it began to fold.

"_The Devil_," a doleful, shaken moan escaped her lips. "Bondage, slavery, vanity—nothin' good is comin' from this." She released the ill-omened card and took Abbie's hands between her own. Her hardened eyes returned to the discoloration on her skin. "There is someone chasin' after you like a bat outta' Hell. The moment they getta' hold of you, ain't no _comin_' back. There ain't no runnin' away with whatever _fiend_ has eyes for you."

_The Devil_.

She could almost hear her mother cackling all the way from Terrytown Psych. That the one daughter who swore of everything pious found herself ensnared in a paradox. _Werewolves_, _Lycans_, _the Devil_—the list of abnormal anomalies was growing.

Abbie didn't know how long she could keep shimmying on the veil between believing and not—or rather in the limbo of unhinged and lucid.

**_ii._**

The rest of the day she spent in solitude. The windows were closed, the blinds were sealed shut. Her pistol was dutiful at her side as she lay motionless in her sheets, slender fingers wrapped in soft, dark tresses. The only sign she was alive was the gentle rise and fall of her chest. The occasional twitch of her toe when the roar in her mind became particularly vehement.

Once again—for the umpteenth time that week—she stared at the ceiling as if seeking answers in the white surface.

And just like every other time, there was none.

No great, deific horn sounding from the ethers with a tune loud enough to wash away her trepidations. No random gust of sacred wind that would show her the way.

Just the familiar nihility that still managed to hurt even years after giving up.

Abbie shifted, her hand seeking the red mark on her neck. She initially deduced that it was a bug bite. However, as time wore on and there wasn't an itch, ache or inflammation, the idea was scrapped. Perhaps it was a rash? Or an allergic reaction?

Though the way Adaeze glowered at her neck, she couldn't imagine it was either.

She let out a groan, rolling onto her side and staring at the plain wall.

Is this how she was going to spend her days off? Wallowing in self-pity and contemplating if she'd gone delusional?

It surely wasn't what she had in mind when Irving bent a few rules to a give her a break.

Somewhere between working nine plus hours at the station and swallowing Advils like they were water, he must've figured that she was going off the deep end with this case. She spent long periods in isolation, mulling over the autopsy reports and the mounting list of missing peoples without taking any breaks. When offered snacks—namely from Luke, who was fretful for her health—she'd decline, never taking her eyes away from the computer screen or sparing them words of reassurance. Niceties such as _"I'm okay" _or _"everything's fine"_.

She wouldn't lie to them the same way she was lying to herself.

Abbie sat upright, scooting to the edge of her mattress. She held her head in her hands, wiping over her face and eyes.

After her mother was sent to the ward, the judge advised her and Jenny to go to therapy. To seek rehabilitation after years of psychological abuse and religious trauma. But of course then—her eighteen year old mind ready to leave everything that had to do with her mother behind—she refused. Her sister underwent three months before following in suite.

Now she thought the damage was finally starting to catch up to her.

Abbie stumbled into the bathroom, flicking on the light. She stared into the mirror, taking note of her listless state. The lackluster hair, almost grayish skin and puffy lids. She both appeared and felt as if she was ready wither away. It was no wonder Irving had all but hauled her out of the office yesterday—exhaustion was settling in worse than she anticipated.

And in that next moment, Abbie had a notion. Being alone was proving to be counterproductive—she made the erroneous assumption that it would clear her mind—and she really, _really _needed a drink right now.

The club seemed like a fix.

Although she loathed the club scene—being around horny drunks in a closed space was irritating—it wasn't like there were many other options. She needed to be around people, find something to do with herself since she couldn't rely on her work to be an anchor for the next two days. If she continued to just _sit _there, stewing in this abyss of woe and ambivalence, she was going to lose her shit. Maybe a couple—or numerous—shots of hooch and a trashy song would be her tonic for the night.

So for the first time in a year and half, Abbie got dressed to go party and drink like she was seventeen again. She decided to keep her outfit somewhat modest, choosing a strapless, black cocktail dress that ended below her mid-thigh. Golden studs and a thin anklet were her only accessories; her makeup light, but enough to hide the hollow look she'd taken the moment the disappearances began.

She grabbed her wallet, heading out of the apartment. The night was blustery and humid, air saturated and prepared for a tempest. A dense, dark overcast swirled in the ethers. Moonlight scarcely touched the earth, its luminescence trapped as a halo within the clouds.

A powerful gust blew her hair back, the strands tickling her shoulders. Tonight's weather was going to be absolute bullshit, be she couldn't risk being home alone. She took in a deep lungful of air, exhaling in hopes to calm her paranoia.

It didn't.

The ride to the club was silent. The radio, even on its lowest tune, felt too raucous and distracting. Like she was supposed to heed something, but _what _she could not comprehend. When she pulled into the parking lot—bass vibrating her entire car—the feeling augmented. It sewed itself deep into her consciousness and made its home.

Unfortunately, the line to the club was long. Lengthy to the point it wrapped around the front of the building and ended in the back. The establishment was new, one of the few spots in Sleepy Hollow that appealed to a younger crowd. Everything about the place screamed rebellious youth—from the sharp red and black décor to the "edgy" name _Diable_.

Abbie was only twenty-seven, but she felt too mature for this crowd. Whether that was because of her fucked up childhood or the simpletons behind her, she didn't have time to contemplate; she was already at the front of the line.

Upon opening up the door, her senses overloaded. The intense bass stirring her insides, the fetor of cheap perfume and sweat, the cold air blasting her hypersensitive skin from the vent above.

The flashing red lights.

The bodies pressed against each other.

The possibilities.

Saying that she was "out of practice" with the whole club shebang was a severe understatement.

Instead of finding her way to the crowded dance floor like everyone else pouring into the building, she made a beeline to the bar. Abbie didn't bother excusing herself as she snaked between people, occasionally shoving those who were too sloshed to recognize her presence. She'd only been there for less than three minutes, but yet she was ready to leave.

_Not yet. Not just yet. _

She made it to the sleek, black bar table and plopped onto the chrome stool. The bartender came to her aid, providing her request of _"one big ass glass of rum" _within a couple moments of the words tumbling out of her mouth. Either _Diable _had the best bartending service around or he could actually _feel_ her desperation for liquor.

She wished it was the former.

Her drink—not that she anticipated anything better—was diluted and seedy. Something about the way it scratched against her throat was revolting—but _honestly_? She couldn't give a fuck about that. She slogged it back and emptied the glass in mere seconds. Abbie screwed her eyes shut, her chest heaving with the searing heat spreading throughout.

Despite the piss-poor quality of the liquor, it was doing its job. The club began melding from this sordid, den of inequity—fully equipped with people damn near fucking each on the dance floor—to a haven. A sanctuary. Where even the harrowing deliberations of _werewolves _and _demons _couldn't burden her.

If her colleagues could see her now.

She swayed her hips the beat, letting the music guide her body and thoughts. While Abbie wasn't dancing with reckless abandon—no matter her state of sobriety, it was just one thing she _didn't do_—she was warming up to this place. Here and its cheap liquor and lewd music and over-priced entrance fee.

Though, that could have very well been the liquor talking.

She turned back around, waving the waiter for her—third? _Fourth_?—cup of rum. It was obvious she was calling a cab tonight.

Just as the drink hit her tongue, she felt a very unwelcomed hand against her backside. An aggravated groan escaped her lips. It was only a matter of time until some oversexed Neanderthal would try to seduce her, despite her indicative aloof expression and obvious avoidance of the dance floor.

"Move it or lose it."

She gave him half a second.

Abbie removed the hand herself, twisting his wrist at an awkward angle until he let out a yelp. She fucking _hoped_ she broke something.

Abandoning her drink at the counter, she slid off of her seat and headed towards the exit. She's had just about enough of the club anyways; the area was thinning out and it was late.

Outside remained in its foreboding state, clouds still swirling above. The parking lot was startlingly empty for a Saturday night after the club, but the imminent gale must've sent many on their way home before they got trapped in the thundershower. If she wasn't too busy drowning her liver, she would've left sooner, but alas.

A harsh gale almost knocked her off her feet, but the petite lieutenant continued on her journey back to her car; she needed to grab her keys and her phone before hailing a taxi. Regrettably, the jeep was parked in the far corner of the wide lot. The place where the dumpster, bugs and _whatever _else chose to reside in the foliage.

Loud footsteps thundered behind her. She gripped the hem of her dress.

"Aye!" he called.

Abbie continued to stride, ignoring him and the clamminess in her palms. She's dealt with this before—the catcalling, the harassment. In the nadir of her life, it became commonplace. She inured this treatment ages ago. Nonetheless, there was something inexplicably _uncanny _about the entire situation.

The sensation was parallel to the moment in the car.

"_Aye_!" he flew into her line of view, standing in front of her like a blockade of skin and muscles. She proceeded to sidestep him, but he shot out and seized Abbie's arms, ramming her up against the wall.

Eyes squeezed shut, she let out a stuttering breath. Lights exploded beneath her lids. Fire ignited in her skin.

Rough, calloused fingers pulled her head down, her face a hair's breadth away from his.

"_Open your eyes_."

And when she did, she saw red.

Crimson. Scarlet. Vermillion leering back at her with such _corruption _and _lasciviousness _she could feel her body rot where he touched her.

Then there were the thick, ridged pieces of bone jutting out from either side of his skull. The ashen, veiny skin. The _tines_, the _talons, _the—

She acted before she could fully process her actions, her fist soaring out and connecting with his jaw in a powerful _snap_! He staggered backwards. She dropped like a sack of sand.

Ignoring her sluggishness, nausea and ache—Abbie ran. She ran as if all of Heaven and Hell was nipping at her heels. As if the ground beneath her was caving in with every heavy footstep.

The jeep moved closer through her narrow sightline. Yards fused into feet; feet merged into inches. She was _almost _there.

But almost wasn't enough.

Claws raked along the side of her arm. Blood spattered her window.

Abbie lost balance and nearly tumbled to the floor, but she caught her balance in the last second.

That _beast _drew his blood-slicked fingers into his mouth, closing his eyes as if he were tasting the finest of delicacies.

Using this window of time, she yanked her car door open and scrambled in. One hand slammed down on the lock button while the other sought the right key.

_Shit, shit, shit, __**shit**__._

Body trembling and flooded with adrenaline, she thrust the key into the ignition. The car roared to life just as he finished lapping her essence from his digits. Abbie threw her car into reverse and slammed on the gas. The tires whined as the car flew rearward and barreled into the fiend. She didn't dare look behind as she peeled away from the lot.

**_iii._**

She didn't have slightest clue what she was doing anymore. Her mind was too frazzled to form coherent thoughts, body too numb to complete any movement with an ounce of grace. So she didn't move, she didn't think. Instead, she chose to let her head rest against the foggy car window, vacuous eyes looking at all, but taking in nix.

Her arm was stiff and sore underneath her leather jacket. Partially from the abnormal, cold weather that always surrounded this place, the rest from the wound she received from that _thing_.

Abbie closed her eyes, hysteria rising in the pit of her stomach yet again.

Thing, _thing._

How long did she plan on calling it that? How long did plan on pussyfooting around the name as if it would lessen the reality of this situation?

_The Devil_.

Automatically, her mind scorned itself for thinking back to Adaeze and her tarot cards—but she silenced the opposition. This was _twice_—thrice, counting the disappearances—that paranormal incongruities has plagued her existence. The first instance, she chalked up the experience as deliriums from stress.

But this time?

She couldn't negate what she saw, what she _felt_. There was no longer the option to pretend it didn't happen.

The air trapped in the car became too stuffy, so—after an hour of sitting impassively—she opened the car door and hobbled out.

Even through the gloom she noticed the manor was renovated from the time she last recalled. Weeds and brambles have been unearthed, the once rusted gates restored to its original inkiness. The wildflowers and vines that overran the vast lot were expunged and replaced with an assortment of ivory flora. Water trickled from the angel fountain as its white marble glistened with new fervor.

While the chilling, ambience and dated look remained—she didn't think it would ever wane, irrespective of its refurbish—the sign of life was clear.

She eyed the medieval knockers before her, which she now realized were—ironically—carved into the shape of a wolf's head. How she missed this detail two weeks ago was beyond her. Although, then she wasn't bedeviled by everything that pertained to Lycans.

Abbie slammed the knockers down onto the door. The acoustic sound reverberated throughout the front yard. Aside from the constant, coursing fountain and the wind brushing past her ears, it was quiet with no movement from the other side of the wooden barriers.

She knocked again, unease slinking its way into her system. Though as before, there was no response.

One last time, she banged the clunky knocker against the door.

Unlike her last encounter in the manor, the door didn't swing open to reveal a miffed man, haphazardly dressed and full of paradoxes.

She shouldn't have been nearly as thwarted by this as she currently was, honestly. As she withdrew her cold hand from the metal ring, she _shouldn't_ have been teeming with inadequacy and dread that made her lips quiver and vision blur. Nonetheless, she was, and because of that she found herself sliding to the floor, crippled by her emotions.

Cool water hit her skin. Gentle at first, nearly illusory. Then it began to pick up, the feather light touches morphing into heavy droplets that hammered down with conviction. Everything in sight was bathed in rain, accompanied by the usual brume. Thunder rumbled violently; the ground quaked with each clap.

She was completely soaked through. Her hair clung to her skull and rivulets streamed down her face, but she didn't—_couldn't_—care. Abbie pulled her legs to her chest a buried her face into the crook between her knees, body trembling in time with the thunder.

At some point between the lightning and shower, she fell asleep.

At some point between the fitful writhing, _he _returned.

She didn't realize it at first, her inert body locked into a deep slumber. But as she felt warm hands heating her frigid skin, she waded through the unconscious haze and came to. Abbie blinked slowly, confusion apparent on her face until recognition settled in like a stone in a current.

The Devil. The manor.

Crane.

"_Leftenant_!" He stressed, worry stricken. His voice sounded like a sledgehammer against her head. She squeezed her eyes shut, a pathetic groan reverberating in her throat.

Crane brushed her sopping hair away from her face, tucking the strands behind her ears. He delicately pulled her up from curled position. Her body feeling too cumbersome and lethargic to stand upright, she leaned against the cranny of his arm.

Abbie could hear his heart thrumming against his chest.

Crane crammed his free hand into his pockets as he fished around for the key. Moments later, he jammed it into the keyhole and threw the door open, ushering her inside.

She let out a shuddering breath, staring into the pitch blackness in the ballroom. Moments later, light flooded the baroque styled area from the chandelier. Crane moved back to her, close enough for her to feel immense body heat, but far enough for her to breathe comfortably. He took in a deep breath through his nose, face flickering with emotion seconds later. She caught a glimpse of anger—maybe hatred—but it was gone before she could properly analyze it.

She supposed he wanted an explanation. Hell, if she was him, she'd want a reason, too. After all, he _did _find her out cold on his doorstep during a thunderstorm; never mind the fact it must've been three or four o' clock in the morning. However, Abbie couldn't form an excuse. She couldn't elucidate her dilemma in coherent words, seeing she could barely grasp the situation herself.

She glanced elsewhere, jaw set.

"You must be weary," he said, breaking the pregnant silence. "And cold. If you don't get warm soon, you'll be flu-ridden by dawn."

Abbie chewed on her lip, her eyebrow raising.

"Are you suggesting I stay here for the night?"

"Unless you want to take your ventures with the wrath of nature, than I advise so."

His locked eyes with her, waiting for a response. After a second glance, perhaps he waiting for something else, too—what that could be, she didn't know; his irises were a maelstrom of emotions.

She figured she didn't have much else to lose at this point, seeing she was still picking shards of her dignity off the floor. She wiped water away from her face with her uninjured arm.

"Lead the way."

And with that, Crane stepped in front of her, hands laced behind his back. Abbie narrowed her eyes, her diagnostic, inquisitive side taking over. His palms were reddened with various welts, his clothes in no better of a state with shards of glass and wood sticking to the cottony material. The first time she met him, his hair was disarray, but the way he sported his wild, unshorn locks now looked downright feral. Even through his poise and confidence, she could detect the stutter in his steps.

The urge to ask what occurred died on her lips; she wasn't the one for sharing, and whatever transpired prior was none of her business. He respected her decision to withhold her reason for coming there—a reason she was still trying to figure out—so she'd reciprocate and leave him be. At this point, it was the least she could do.

He halted at one of the many doors dotting the hallway, twisting the knob and swinging it open. She stepped inside, hands rubbing against the wall for a light. After a few seconds of fruitless patting, she noticed a fussy lamp perched on a desk and flicked it on. The room was just as ornate as the rest of the manor. The walls were a glossy ecru, the ostentatious, démodé sheets a matching tone. A wide painting of a wintry timberland hung opposite of the bed; adjacent to it was a long, arching window with a view of the woods out back. Aside from a dresser, a counter and door that probably led to a bathroom, the room was plain.

There were a few odd personal touches to the quarters that threw her off; like the _Beatles _bobbleheads standing precariously on top of the dresser. Or the retro, prop guitar slanted against the closet door. Telltale signs that someone once occupied this room.

Abbie walked over to the windowsill, staring into the abyss outside. Lightning illuminated the scenery in quick bursts; thunder followed in suite seconds later.

She felt a warmth caress the side of her neck, but when she turned around, no one was there. She gaped at the closed room door, mouth pulled down into a frown and fingers rubbing over the bruise.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, she gingerly tugged off her sodden clothes, careful not to irritate her wounds. It occurred to her that she _probably _should've asked for some alcohol or bandages, but nonetheless she didn't. Her soiled dress and bra were the next to go, her panties shortly after. She opened the bathroom door and ran a hot shower, nearly falling right back asleep under the pressurized jets.

When she got out, she went digging around for some kind shirt to put on. Sleeping in someone's guestroom completely naked didn't sit right with her, even if she did already lock the door. Abbie stopped moving, realization dawning upon her.

She was about to go to sleep in a _stranger's _house.

She knew naught about him, his entire persona a big enigma laced with riddles and old-timey vernacular. While Crane didn't look overtly malicious—perhaps a bit neurotic, though—her cop intuitive long since prohibited her from making superficial assumptions. She's seen her fair share of baby-faced murders and serial rapists; more than enough to keep him at arm's length until she could leave.

However, her quandary was making "until she could leave" a pretty far-fetched date. That creature was out there somewhere, undoubtedly. Maybe even upturning every stone in Hell for the one who steamrolled him like a rodent. That son of a bitch was the reason she'd hightailed it straight into Putnam County's backwoods, hoping the one who began her consternations would also end it.

The third drawer in the dresser bore gifts. A bunch of tawdry band shirts lay folded on top of one another; striped boxers and ankle socks in the drawer below. All of the clothing were several sizes too big, but she wasn't given much else to work with. She threw on the boxers and a _Metallica _shirt before nuzzling into bed, going out before her head even hit the pillow.

**_iv._**

It was still gloomy and pouring, much to her displeasure. Thunder continued to roll, lightning bolts still split the sky and the clouds persisted to weep and unleash its ire upon the earth. Hell, she'd say it was even worse than last night. This time around, the gales were carrying branches and leaves. Maybe if she'd look close enough, she'd spot some livestock in the mix, too.

It couldn't have been past six—maybe seven—o' clock. Though without the sun to guide her, it was hard to tell. She usually wasn't roused this early on her days off, but storms scared the shit out of her since she was a toddler. The thunder always used to shake her little home, and on several occasions, hail came flying into her bedroom through broken windows.

It was a fucking mystery how she slept on the porch earlier.

Abbie rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, stretching her arms above her head. She recoiled, the wound making itself known through sharp, wiry pain. She still needed something to wrap it with. Her stomach growled moments later, almost as loud as the racket outside. A second after that, a hangover decided to show its horrid face. It was as if all of her body's problems came rushing back to her.

The lieutenant wasn't one for snooping around—obviously, unless her work called for it—but she was goddamn starving and in need of food. Crane—like the perplexity he is—was nowhere to be found and she wasn't blessed with the patience to wait around until he appeared to eat. She could physically feel her stomach consuming itself, seeing that she hadn't a bite since going to _Adaeze's Undead Emporium_.

Which, by the way, was nearly twenty-one hours ago.

The hallways were painted in blackness, just as glum as the rest of the manor. The only sound was the drumming from the rain and her heels scuffing against the ground. She wandered each corridor, eventually walking around in circles in an attempt to find the kitchen. On the outside she was able to tell the manor was huge, but as she finally got an exhaustive look at the sweeping, high ceilings, gold-plated staircases and infinite corridors, "huge" was no longer a word to label it.

It looked like a mini Versailles.

Abbie craned her neck, spellbound by the chilling, classical artwork gracing the roof. Her dark eyes drank in every careful brushstroke and mien on the subjects' faces. She was never one to _really _appreciate art, but she had to give credit where it was due.

The grumbling in her stomach reminded Abbie of her mission. She snapped her head back down and returned to the task at hand.

_He needs to hire a guide or something_, she thought bitterly, walking past the same set of doors for the nth time. As if spared, the bowed opening leading to the massive kitchen came into view. There were several wide, oblong windows facing the woods. Every culinary machinery she could think of—plus some—was present, making her wonder if Crane cooked or was some renowned, five-star chef she somehow didn't know about.

It sure as hell would explain how he owned all of this shit, let alone where all this money was coming in from.

Abbie opened a pantry door. She blinked once. Then twice. Then another after that.

_What the hell_.

She thought she had a drinking problem, she really did. Sometimes she indulged a drink or two and felt embarrassed about it, putting down the bottle for months at a time. Last night was a reminder why she didn't do it often.

_However_, Crane's issue—if she could even call it that—made hers pale in comparison.

The son of a bitch had every rack inside of the walk-in pantry _loaded _with liquor. Some bottles could scarcely squeeze onto the space it shared with dozens of others. It was like he was running an underground distillery.

She felt a twinge of pity, pondering what extremity would cause him to have a drunkard's wet dream inside of his kitchen. Although, she immediately reeled. She wasn't going to get attached to him or whatever he was going through; she had enough problems on her own. She didn't need to add his to the equation.

She shut the pantry and moved to the fridge, hoping for some kind of snack. Her hunger and hangover were working together to create something vicious. Aside from copious amounts of water gallons, it was bare.

The freezer was worse. It wasn't empty like everything else, but now she wished it was.

There were several, frozen cuts of unpackaged, greyish meat stacked up against each other. Blood spattered against each side of the compartment as if Crane had thrown them in there while they were fresh and bleeding. Whatever this was, he didn't buy it from a store.

Bile rose up her throat and her heart began to hammer.

Lightning floodlit the kitchen. A silhouette danced on the walls.

_Fuck._

She made a dash for the knife set on the marble island, unsheathing the largest blade. A door on the far left side of the kitchen creaked unlocked.

She held her breath.

It swung open; he noticed her immediately.

"Miss Mills?"

She gripped the knife like it was her last lifeline, pointing it at him. Her face was hard and impassive; she couldn't let him see she was weak. Frightened and vulnerable, like a shrew in a cat's den.

He stood rigid. Not aplomb and arrogant like once before, but crestfallen and tense. His lips were drawn into a tight line, fingers twitching with a need to touch something. He made an attempt to move, but her offending arm jutted out more.

She's seen what he could do, the speed he could travel. Without batting an eyelash, he could disarm her before she even had a chance to register. She wasn't a threat to him, but he stayed in his position as if she was predator and he prey.

"Abigail, _please_." His voice was even, but she could hear his desperation.

Another burst of lightning illuminated the somber room.

Her breaths came out in shallow puffs.

"What's in there?" she sounded more airy and lightheaded than she would've liked. He broke his gaze, flexing his fingers. "_Crane_."

"It's not human."

"But it's not animal, either." She had a feeling she knew what it was. That same hunch in her car and at the club; it was here, too, constricting her chest with each labored breath. "I'm only going to ask you one more time; what the hell _is _that?"

She narrowed her eyes, watching Crane work his jaw a couple of times.

"He deserved to perish. He _had _to die—for your sake and others." She opened her mouth to speak, but he raised his finger, pleading for a moment. "He was an _incubus_, a lust demon that beds unwilling women until they're swollen with his hell spawn. I couldn't allow him to wreak havoc any longer; I did what I had to, and for that I am not remorseful."

That left one question.

"Then _why _is his body in your freezer?!"

His face was beet red, hot with embarrassment. He stared at his feet as if it held all the Seven Wonders of the World right between his toes. He curled his fingers at his side, refusing to look anywhere near her. She cocked her head to the side, eyes skyward.

This was ludicrous. Downright fucking insane.

"You were gonna' eat him, _weren't_ you?"

He shifted under her scrutiny. It was close enough to an answer.

Abbie dropped her arm, rubbing her face with her hand. She was still trying to wrap her mind around how her life went to shit so quickly. How she went from avoiding everything supernatural-related to being trapped in a house with a demon-eating werewolf.

Her mother was cackling just a bit harder.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Like mentioned before, the original idea for this chapter kinda got chopped and screwed, so if this chapter is also clunky, that's why. :,D Also, I'm going with the Medieval Europe folklore for werewolves where they eat corpses, if you weren't able to tell.**

**I can safely say that next chapter is coming out ****_much _****sooner, and is going to get back to business with the case.**

**-tla**


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